


Dunyazade

by rei_c



Series: Storyteller 'verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-25
Updated: 2006-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-29 17:44:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam tells stories. Storyteller!verse, from Dean's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dunyazade

Sam tells stories. Not the ‘once-upon-a-time’ kind, but every time he says, _I’m fine; It’s just a nightmare; Go on, I’ll wait here_ , and not just his words, but his body, too, when he pretends that he’s forgotten how they used to touch, him and Dean, touch and kiss and fuck and fight. Sam was never this good, though, not before he left, and Dean wonders, in the months they don’t talk, how Sam’s doing, whether he’s told people his secrets or stories, wonders which stories and who Sam is now. 

Then he meets Jessica and can’t believe it, and hears Sam talk to her and can’t believe what she accepts so readily. Sam is a storyteller, building with words the places he inhabits, and as they drive to Jericho, Dean wonders if Sam lies to everyone, or just the people he loves. 

\--

 _Tell me what happened_ , the survivor pleads, eyes darting between Sam and Dean. It was a spirit, the ghost of man dead in the war who’s looking for his wife in every girl who steps too close to the river his wife jumped into one hundred years ago when he didn’t come home. 

Dean opens his mouth but Sam beats him, says, _We’re from the Geological Survey and we think it was shifting clay under the soil, but we need to check, run some tests, ask you some questions if you’re up to it._ The survivor nods and Sam asks the questions, earnest face and dark, forbidden eyes. Dean stares and when they leave, he says, _Man, she ate that right up. Geological Survey?_ Sam shrugs and looks the other way. 

\--

Dean doesn’t know how Sam does it, how Sam can stand it. It doesn’t matter where they are, who they’re with, what they’re doing, there’s something lurking between them, echoes of the night before Sam left, when Dean pressed his fingers into Sam’s hips in hopes he’d leave his mark on more than skin, echoes of the years before when they’d been doing more than sleeping every time they shared beds. 

\--

 _It’s nothing,_ Sam says, rubbing his temples and blinking against the weak light of the bedside lamp. It’s a lie but one Dean almost believes, would if he hadn’t seen the way Sam’s muscles are tense in his arms, ready-to-snap ripcords, as Sam swings his feet off of the bed and turns his back to Dean. Sweat makes curlicues of Sam’s hair stick to his neck, and Dean wants to change beds, to mouth away the dampness, to swallow sweat and tears and as much of Sam as he can, to take Sam inside and keep him safe, tell him he doesn’t have to hide inside of these fables anymore. 

\--

It takes months and a pool hall in Dallas before Dean sees the veil in Sam’s eyes flutter. They’re darker than he remembers, but it might be the light, the crowd of people between them, the chalk dust fading in the air. Dean bends, arches, lets his fingers linger on the cue, hustling the audience but performing for Sam, instead of with him, doing all of this to try and wake Sam up from his hiding place in lies and stories. Sam’s become this person Dean doesn’t recognize, but cracks are starting to show, have been for a while, now, and Dean’s a gambling soldier; he’ll press his advantage when he sees it. Cracks deepen, widen, and the ride back to the motel is quiet, thrumming with something near truth under the silence. 

\--

 _I don’t want whatever it was we had_ , Sam says, somewhere south of San Francisco. It takes Dean off-guard, that little statement breathed into the moment of quiet between songs. He doesn’t know what to say and Sam’s got his phone out, probably to text Jessica, and Dean wants to hate her but he can’t. Sam weaves a web of deception all around him but flavors it with enough temptation that people believe it, and Jessica looked at Sam with such trust that Dean feels a deep, empty sorrow for her. It won’t last, they won’t last, nothing will, nothing except the empty road stretching out in front of them all. 

\--

Sam pushes him against the door once they’re both inside, and as Sam steals Dean’s breath, all Dean can think is ‘finally.’ He says it, _Finally_ , when Sam’s strips him in a frenzy, and then Sam growls, attacks him, marking his skin as much as Sam’s already marked everything inside of Dean. _Mine_ , Sam says, and it’s the first word of truth Sam’s said since Palo Alto. _Yours_ , Dean says, and all he can do is look at Sam, at his brother, at this man he’s starting to recognize, traces of the Sam he remembers in a man-child’s body, in a wise man’s eyes, in a heat that feels like fire. _Yours_.

\--

 _I’m awake_ , Sam tells him, and Dean’s half-asleep, but he thinks that Sam’s got that tone of voice, that ‘trust me’ tone everyone listens to and he doesn’t want to hear it, not when they’re in bed, together, like they should be, like the should have always been. _Go to sleep_ , Dean says and Sam stops talking, instead trailing his fingernails down the ruin of Dean’s neck, laughing when Dean hisses in mixed pain-pleasure. 

This is truth, the language of them, the press of skin against skin, the hitched breathing and wordless pleas, being so deep in each other that they’re one. This is truth, not the made-up fairytales Sam tells when he speaks, not words, not stories. This is them, and this is all they need. Sam just forgot for a while, believed in his own lies a little too much, and Dean sleeps, secure in the knowledge that the veil in Sam’s eyes, those eyes deep-darker than knowledge, is gone now. 

\--

 _Tell me_ , she says, and Sam smiles. _Do you believe in the supernatural?_ he asks, and the girl looks ready to cry as Dean returns Sam’s smile, both wearing the same carved curve of lips.


End file.
